


Heal Thy Self

by tres_mechante



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Gen, Suicide Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tres_mechante/pseuds/tres_mechante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love, hate, addiction – it's all the same really. It’ll get you in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heal Thy Self

**Author's Note:**

> Written for dark_fest; prompt: 'reverse' addiction'; when Wilson turns to addictive substances, House stops him dead, cold turkey or not
> 
> Thanks and acknowledgements in end notes.

He remembers flying, the wind whipping through his hair, tearing at his clothes. It was the greatest rush he'd ever known. He doesn't remember landing, however. Which, considering the results, was probably a good thing. Flying, that's what he had to remember, to focus on, how it felt to be free of gravity's grip.

"Doctor Wilson?"

Gravity is annoying.

"Open your eyes, Doctor Wilson. It's time to wake up."

Gravity is also bossy. He can feel himself becoming chained to the ground again.

"You're doing fine. Come on back, James, just a little more… Open your eyes so I know you’re with us again.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he pries his eyes open, the blurriness eventually taking the shape of a concerned looking nurse.

"Welcome back," she says, lips smiling and eyes serious. "Are you going to stay this time?"

That makes no sense, but he lets it go. Concentration is just too much work, so he closes his eyes again.

 

"You are a very lucky man."

Wilson stares at the therapist for a moment before shrugging indifferently. "So I've been told." He shifts in his wheelchair trying to find a comfortable position.

"You will likely regain full use of your hand, and in time you’ll be able to walk again." At Wilson's lack of response, the woman sighs audibly. “Injuries this severe can result in amputation or paralysis - or death. But I’m sure you know that better than most."

"Well, then I am a lucky man." He smiles but judging by the look on her face it must look as insincere as it feels.

"The emotional trauma can be every bit as crippling as the physical injury." She glances down at the file in front of her. "I believe the nightmares you've been suffering are actually memories trying to resurface. Facing those memories might actually help the--"

Wilson stares pointedly at his watch. "Time's up for today, so if someone could take me back to my room...?"

An orderly comes in and wheels him away. By the time they get back to the room, pain is clawing at him and it's all he can do to keep from screaming. The nurse arrives with painkillers and moments later he drifts away. The pain is still there, somewhere in the background, but he no longer cares.

 

"You look like something the cat dragged in – and then tried to bury in the litter box."

Wilson opens his eyes to see House sitting in the chair by his bed. "Get out."

House just smirks and settles in as though he plans to stay awhile. "Someone has to be sure you're getting proper care." He leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, "I have it on good authority that the nurses and support staff live to make doctors' lives hell. Something about having us helpless physicians under their control, I'm sure."

"Or maybe it's just you that gets the special treatment," offers Wilson. "And what did I ever do to deserve your particular brand care and attention?"

"What can I say? I'm just a caring kind of guy." He taps the cane on the floor a few times. "I hear you've been giving the therapists a hard time."

"Said the pot to the kettle."

"Yeah, well, I had a reputation to protect – no one expected anything else from me. You, on the other hand, have everyone more than just a little freaked at your less than saintly."

"Get out."

"Fine, I’m going. But if you don't start showing improvement – psychologically speaking – they're going to give you one of those nice white coats with the extra-long sleeves that do up in the back."

The rattle of a cart just outside the room distracts them for a moment.

Wilson glances at the door and then at his friend and nemesis. "I'll...try," he says, turning his head away. A few moments later, he thinks he feels a fleeting touch on his wrist, but when he looks back, House is already gone and a meal cart is parked outside his door. He wonders whether House would teach him how to sneak around on a bum leg; the man was a master of stealth. Bastard.

 

"I was not trying to kill myself! Where the hell do you get off say--"

"The question has to be asked, James."

"No, it really doesn't," he denies. "It was a fucking accident."

Her gaze is steady and Wilson is the one to look away. She says, "Tell me what happened

He remembers flying, the rush of wind buffeting him, carrying him safely away from... carrying him away for a few precious moments until gravity once more claimed him.

"I-I wanted to go for a ride, to see what all the fuss was about, I suppose. My...my friend taught me to ride a motorcycle – lazy laps around every parking lot in the area." He smiles at the memory. "But it was so beautiful out and I’d had a rough few days with a dying patient and I just…he – my friend – always claimed the motorcycle helped clear his head so I took the bike out for a quick ride.”

She makes a few notes. “What happened while you were riding?”

“Nothing really. I just started down the road and kept going.” He remembers the gulls soaring over fishing boats. “He was right – it’s an amazing feeling. I always accused him of being a bit of an adrenaline junkie; maybe it rubbed off on me.”

She writes something else in her little book, leaving him the peace to imagine the crash of waves and the playful demanding screech of gulls.

“You were found near Bridgeport, which seems a little far for a quick ride to clear your head. Where were you going?”

He blinks his eyes a few times. Screeching gulls become screeching tires, screams of pain echo in his head – No! No! No! – until the pain flows through his entire body, so intense he can barely breathe. “I need to go back to my room,” he whispers, barely able to catch his breath.

“We still have a few minutes. Have some water-“

His hand comes out and knocks it away. “I don’t want any fucking water. I want to go to my room!” He knows words are pouring from his mouth, a waterfall of angry sound, but it means nothing. He needs to get away – run! – but his body cannot, will not obey.

The sharp clumsy prick of a needle in his arm is both outrage and balm. Gratefully, he lets the world go.

He is flying, free, gone.

 

He loves the floaty feeling of disconnect and thinks he’d like to stay this way forever.

“Not chance, buddy. Get your ass back to the real world and deal like everyone else.”

He sighs and reluctantly opens his eyes. “Why do you insist on tormenting me?”

“I’m bored,” says House, and Wilson despairs over finding the smirk comforting.

“Go pick on your patients.”

“I am.” He taps his cane a few times before getting up to wander the room. He leans against the wall beside the window. “Kidding aside, you have to get a grip. They aren’t going to let you out of here if you keep acting up.”

“Maybe I don’t care,” says Wilson, shifting. He stops suddenly and stares down at his wrists, which are secured to the side rails.

He rattles the wrist restraint closest to House. “I don’t suppose you’d…?”

“Much as I’d like to, the answer is no.” He smile is tinged with mischief. “Besides, you should be used to it. What was her name again…? Candy? Chloe?”

“Charlene – and it was just the one time.”

“Once was more than enough – another night listening to you two and I’d have ended up scarred for life.”

“Get out.”

“’Get out’,” he mocked. “That’s all you ever say anymore. Clearly the romance has gone.”

“House--”

“Oh, settle down. The restraints aren’t permanent. Your shrink says you’re on the verge of a breakthrough – personally, I think it’s more of a break down – and this is only until you show you’re back in control.”

Wilson looks away and closes his eyes. He isn’t in control - hasn’t been in control since the accident.

“You know the drill, James, so just give them what they want – tell them your deep dark secrets.” At his friend’s panicked glare, he clarifies, “Well, a version of them anyway. It’ll make them happy and as long as you don’t flip out or go all silent and stoic again, you’ll be a free man in no time.”

“Well, you’d certainly know how to work the system.” He sighs in defeat. “I’ll…think about it.”

 

Wilson looks around the garden and stretches in contentment. It feels like years since he’s felt the sun on his face. He settles on his bench, resting the crutches beside him, and lets the warm sun sink into his body.

His injuries have mostly healed, but he will never walk without help. He soundly rejected even the suggestion of a walker, and only grudgingly consented to the use of crutches. James Wilson has become the darling of Rehab, working hard to overcome his devastating injuries and tragic emotional trauma, crediting his spirit and willpower for his recovery. Of course, they don’t know the real secret of his vastly improved outlook.

He casually opens his water bottle and pops a couple of pills in his mouth, washing them down with several mouthfuls of water. That was the nice thing about this little corner of clinic; total privacy. He settles back and waits for them to take effect.

“I saw that.” House ambles into his line of sight. Wilson frowns at how heavily he’s leaning on the cane. “You know, sooner or later someone is going to catch on.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” He shifts over a bit so House can sit, which he does. In fact, he sprawls until he’s all but forced Wilson off the other side.

“Trust me, Jimmy my lad, someone is going to figure out that their drugs are missing and trace it right back to you.”

“You never give me any credit,” says Wilson, already anticipating the effects of his afternoon snack. “I am a doctor, after all. Why ‘steal’ meds when I can simply write a prescription?”

“Forging prescriptions, Dr. Wilson? I’m shocked,” says House, pressing a hand to his chest. laughs.

Wilson refuses to be baited and shrugs off the tiny twinge of conscience at have stolen the prescription pad. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d gone looking for it – the physician was careless to leave it on his desk.

House sprawls a bit more on the bench and looks around. “So, who's been taking the prescription to be filled? The sleazy orderly or the cleaner with the really bad teeth?”

“They work different shifts, so no reason to choose, really.”

“You can’t keep doing that.”

Wilson looks over at House, puzzled by the unusually somber tone. “Doing what? I’m carrying on a time-honored tradition.”

“Of drug abuse?”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” snaps Wilson as best he can, given the drugs now in his system. “Besides, I’m not abusing anything. It’s more like…creative application of chemical compounds.”

“I’m sure the junkies living under the bridge would say much the same thing – or would if they could string more than two words together.”

“If you’re going to be like that, you can leave anytime.” Wilson purposely looks away from his friend, and is instantly entranced by the play of sunlight in the leaves. “That is so cool…”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to harsh your mellow,” says House, getting up. “See you later.”

Wilson doesn't notice him leave.

 

He's surprised to see tears in her eyes. For the past couple of months, his therapist has come across as pretty…determined. Once he stopped fighting her the sessions passed easily, although he suspects she knows he wasn't always completely honest.

Still. He's only three signatures away from freedom and he's not about to look that gift horse in the mouth. In a gesture of cooperation, Wilson accepts the contact information for a support group. He won't attend, but he makes all the right noises. His therapist beams at him with pride when he thanks her for the recommendation.

Wilson is surprised to see Cuddy waiting for him in his room. She has taken the day off to bring him home and make sure he's settled in. She pulls his wheeled suitcase out to the car while he says goodbye.

He gets careful hugs from the nurses and a bag of pill bottles from the orderly. The slight rattle of the packages makes him happy.

He doesn't say much on the drive, pleading exhaustion from all the excitement, and Cuddy doesn't push. He leans against the window and watches the world speed by. It isn't flying, but it's something.

 

He can't quite put his finger on it, but something isn't right. The condo is neat, the place has been aired out and there is fresh food in the fridge. The sheets and towels are clean and…he is unsettled.

House makes some comment about something and he puts his disquiet aside to focus on his cranky roommate.

 

The world feels…off; not wrong, exactly, but definitely not right. Work no longer provides the needed distraction. Each case seems the same, and every patient drains more and more from him. Some days, most days, the only thing standing between him and madness is the knowledge that relief – freedom – is only a few pills away. He craves the floaty disconnect from pain – emotional and physical – in a way that is probably leading him to take unnecessary chances.

Movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention. House is leaning against the door jamb, shaking his head. "You're going to get caught one of these days," he says. "You should at least push the door closed before you start popping pills like that."

"I'm recovering from a horrible trauma and I'm on medication. That's not exactly a secret."

"It is when it's been prescribed by you for a patient who already died

"You're in no position to throw stones, you know that, right?"

House comes into the office and perches on the corner of Wilson's desk. "You're pushing the limits and you will get caught. Then what'll you do?" He taps his cane on the floor, the rhythm remarkably mimicking his heartbeat. How does he do that?

A woman's voice interrupts his musings. "Am I disturbing you?"

Wilson smiles at Cuddy as she tentatively enters his office, but frowns when she shuts the door behind her. "James," she says, and her use of his first name is disturbing, "I don't really know how to start this conversation."

House scoffs, "You never seem to have trouble when you’re telling me off."

Wilson shoots him a fast glare before returning his attention to the woman who is both colleague and boss. "You could always just say whatever it is outright."

She nods but continues to look uncomfortable. "I've been in meetings over the last few days with…well, several people. James, have you considered perhaps taking some time off, or maybe even changing the focus of your practice?"

"Are you – are you firing me?"

"No! No, of course not. But your behavior lately has not been, well, you haven't really been yourself since…before."

"Everyone does that," snaps Wilson. "They tiptoe around things like I'm going to explode or break or-or something. Why can't anyone just come right out and say whatever the hell they want to say?" He ignores House's muttered "Don’t be an idiot".

Cuddy squares her shoulders. "Fine. I was hoping this could be a mutual decision, maybe give you back a little of the dignity you seem determined to shred. You are now on leave. A security guard will help you gather whatever you want to take with you – which will not include your prescription pad. You are to check yourself in to rehab." She seems to lose momentum. "I know about the faked prescriptions and the drug use. I kept hoping you would turn yourself around."

House mutters, "Because that approach worked so well for me."

She carries on as if he hasn't spoken. "But I did learn something from House's addiction and at least this time I'm not turning a blind eye." She walks over and slaps a sheet of paper down on the desk. "You are expected at the clinic Thursday morning. You will voluntarily commit yourself for treatment or I swear to God you will be stripped of your license. Are we clear?"

Fortunately, the drugs are beginning to do their work and he is able to respond evenly. "Crystal. And the patients currently under my care?"

"Will be transferred to another physician." She opens the door to reveal a security guard. "Doctor Wilson is to take only personal items if he chooses, but that is it. Please make sure no prescription pads leave this office."

The guard enters and Cuddy leaves.

House watches her go. "Wow. I don't know what to say. Apparently you've replaced me at the top of the shit list. I mean, she didn't even try to get in a single dig at my expense."

"Oh, get out," snaps Wilson in disgust. He is conversely insulted when House actually leaves.

The guard clears his throat. "I'm sorry, sir. My orders are to stay."

Wilson glares at him but takes off his lab coat and tosses it over guest chair. He takes his messenger bag and makes a show of opening it and showing the interior to the guard. After placing a few photos inside, he closes it. "I take it I can leave now?"

"Yes sir. I'll walk you out."

Wilson says nothing as shoulders his bag and balances on his crutches, making the walk to the car park in silence. At the exit he hands over his hospital pass and hobbles away without looking back.

 

He wakes to the knowledge that he's supposed to do something, be somewhere, but for the life of him he just can't bring himself to care enough to figure it out.

"You're supposed to check in for rehab in a couple of hours," says House from his position on the other side of the bed.

Wilson rolls his head to look at the other man. "I'm not going."

"You'll lose your job," warns House. "You lose that, you'll lose the condo, maybe even end up on the street somewhere doing…things to support your habit."

"For some reason I can't find it in me to care."

"For some reason I do care."

Their gazes hold and it is Wilson who looks away first. "You shouldn't. You of all people really shouldn't care." His eyes burn with the tears he hasn't been able to shed since that night. "Please, Greg, please don't care."

"Too late." His voice is oddly gentle.

They lay there side by side and Wilson is almost lulled to sleep by the sound of his own breathing.

"I can help…if you let me. Please, James, let me help."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand to see you in pain. Because I'm selfish and want my own pain to go away and it won't as long as you're suffering."

Wilson could feel the gentlest of touches against his cheek, like a whisper of air, cool on tear-dampened skin. "Don't make me go to that place." He hates how weak he sounds.

"I promise. But you can't stay here. Unless I'm mistaken Cuddy will have arranged for someone to call her if you don't show up." House's voice grew thoughtful. "At a guess, I'd say you have until two o'clock before someone hits the panic button."

"I don't have anywhere else to go," he whispers.

"Sure you do."

Wilson thinks about that for a moment, and feels a smile blossoming on his lips. He looks over at House. "The cottage."

"The cottage. No one's been there since ther last visit. Sure, it'll be dusty, but--"

"But no one else knows about it, right?"

"Exactly. I promise we'll make the pain go away." His voice takes on a cajoling quality. "I'll be with you the whole time and we'll take this at your pace, okay? I'm not going to force you into anything."

"But-but the pain will stop? And I won't have to be on meds anymore?"

"No more pain. No more drugs, either."

"Can I tell you a secret?" he whispers, moving closer to House.

"As many as you like – I'll never tell a living soul," vows House.

"I really like the drugs, the way everything feels far away. It's like I float above it all – nothing can touch me or hurt me." He frowns in thought. "But it never lasts long enough."

"Don't worry. There's something even better waiting for you." His smile is pure mischief, and Wilson can't help but respond with a smile of his own.

"When do we leave?"

 

It's good to be on the road again. He's missed this, flying away. It's not as good as the motorcycle, but it's still really good. In fact, it's so good he almost misses the turnoff for the cottage.

He pulls up and parks, frowning at the little hideaway. There is no sign of movement. House was supposed to meet him here; he said he was going on ahead to get things ready.

"Well, are you going to sit there all night?"

Wilson grins at the man leaning against the stone fence. He gets out and for the first time in a long time is able to breathe. "It's so good to be back."

He hurries as best he can, wanting to go faster than the crutches will allow. His heart is racing when House comes up beside him and gestures to the door. "After you."

He takes the key from the chain around his neck and opens the door. The air inside is slightly stale, but he has the unmistakable feeling of being home. Something inside him relaxes.

House moves past him and perches on the edge of the wingback chair. "Do you want to rest first?"

"No. Let's do this. Tell me what to do."

House shakes his head. "Remember, you're doing this of your own free will. At any time you can just say stop and we'll stop. No hard feelings. Deal?"

Wilson is getting tired of House's pussyfooting around. His patience is disappearing fast and it's been hours since his last dose. "Deal."

House points to the bottom drawer of the desk. "Grab that and a couple of glasses."

He's delighted to discover a half-full bottle of high quality scotch and hobbles on one crutch to the kitchen for glasses. He sits back down and fills both glasses.

House waggles his eyebrows in a ridiculous fashion, making Wilson chuckle at the foolishness. House points to another drawer and when Wilson looks inside there is a leather shaving kit. He pulls it out and, at a nod from his friend, opens it. Inside are three unlabeled pill bottles, with no more than a dozen pills in each.

He stares at them and takes a nervous sip of his drink. House, however, is patient and waits until Wilson is ready before giving him instructions on how to combine the pills for maximum effect.

Dutifully, he takes the pills, washing them down with the scotch. There is a peculiar, rather unpleasant, aftertaste to the alcohol, but he's determined to follow the instructions so he keeps going.

"You know, mixing drugs and alcohol is not really a recognized medical procedure," says Wilson as he starts to feel a bit fuzzy.

"Depends on what outcome you're hoping for, doesn’t it?" House leans over to get a better look at him and says, "You might want to stretch out on the bed."

He nods because that makes perfect sense. Fortunately the chair and the bed are close together or he would not have made it.

"Oh, the room is spinning." He rather likes the sensation. "It feels like flying."

"You like flying?"

"Oh, yeah…best thing ever. This is even better than the motorcycle. Hmm…" He gives himself over to the sensations, wanting them to go on forever. "…ever and ever…"

"That I guarantee," says House, sounding far away and very close at the same time. "Don't fight it. Just go with it, give yourself over to it. I promise when you wake up everything will be different."

"How d'you know…?"

"I'm the voice of experience, my friend. I know."

 

The sun is barely up when Wilson wakes. He feels lighter than he has in far too long. He looks around but doesn't see House anywhere. However, the door is open so he assumes his friend has stepped out for a bit. He hesitates for only a moment before deciding to join him.

He's off the bed and halfway to the door before realizing he doesn't have his crutches. He looks around but doesn’t see them anywhere. However, there are papers scattered all over the duvet.

Wilson doesn't know why there is suddenly a knot in his chest, but he forces himself to walk back and look at the papers. They are newspaper clippings. He gathers them up and feels his knees buckle as he reads.

 _PROMINENT LOCAL DOCTOR MISSING_

 _SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING DOCTOR_

 _BODY RECOVERED MAY BE THAT OF MISSING DOCTOR_

 _BODY POSITIVELY IDENTIFIED, SUICIDE SUSPECTED_

There are several clippings from different newspapers. His hand trembles when he picks up the obituary and the memorial card from a funeral.

House is dead. But that's not possible. House was with him last night. What…?

"Have you figured it out?"

Wilson looks up to see House standing in the doorway. His expression is almost…tender. "You look like you could use some fresh air. Let's go for a walk."

He doesn't know why but he gets up and goes to his friend. The moment he passes through the door, pain almost drives him to his knees. Only House's grip keeps him on his feet.

The sun is rising over the ocean and everything is clear – too bright and painfully clear. He turns to House. "You're dead – you drowned. You bastard, you killed yourself!" he yells and takes a swing at him. He’s almost surprised when his hand connects with House’s jaw. “Ow, fuck!”

House doesn't try to avoid the punch and reels backwards from the impact. "It was an accident, I swear!" he says, holding on to the deck railing to keep from falling off the porch. Once he’s stable, he raises a hand to rub his jaw. "I admit I wasn't thinking straight, but I didn't come up here with the intent of killing myself."

Wilson is frustrated and angry, but knows – feels – House is telling the truth. The man is occasionally stupid about drugs and alcohol, but he's never been one to take the coward's way out.

He has a revelation. "The whiskey was spiked."

"Afraid so. I don't remember exactly what I was thinking back then, but it seemed like a good idea at the time." His characteristic shrug was both maddening and endearing.

"So…I'm dead." Wilson goes back to the cottage door. He’s doesn’t want to, but feels he has to look inside and braces for the sight of his own body – which isn’t there. He whirls around to face his friend. “Where – I don’t understand. I was - am dead in there. Aren’t I?”

“Not so much. You passed out before you could finish the second drink.” House shakes his head muttering something that sounds like “lightweight” and says, “You got up at one point and decided to go for a swim.”

The sun was higher now and Wilson could see a pile of clothes and something that might be his crutches on the sand. “Oh. I see.”

House turns his gaze to the water. “I’m sure you’ll turn up eventually.”

Wilson figures it's the shock because there's no other reason for him to be feeling this calm about the whole thing. "Now what?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean what do I mean? I mean, now what?" He gestures around them. "Where do we go? Heaven? Hell? Northwest Purgatory?"

House shakes his head. "No idea. What do you say we find out?" He steps off the porch and starts down the path toward the beach. "Are you coming?" he asks without turning around.

Wilson follows slowly. "Why do you still have a cane if I don't have crutches?"

" _That_ is an excellent question."

"What's the answer?"

House turns back, his smile teasing and inviting mischief. He looks up and down the beach before pointing to the left. "Let's go this way."

"What if I want to go that way?"

House stops, his head dropping forward for a moment. He resumes walking, calling back "Have I _ever_ steered you wrong?"

"Yes! Many times, in fact." However, he hurries after his friend and together they wander down the beach, toward the sun. He watches the gulls in the distance and imagines he can feel the wind whipping past him and savors the feeling of freedom, of flying.

~~~~~~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~~~~~~

 

 _The Pulse  
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital Newsletter _

_**PROMINENT CANCER SPECIALIST DROWNS** _

_The body of Doctor James Wilson, head of Cancer Unit at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was recovered yesterday after an extensive search along a stretch of Massachusetts coastline. The cause of death is believed to be drowning. An autopsy is being conducted Thursday to determine the actual cause of death._

 _This is the second time a physician from Princeton-Plainsboro has turned up dead in the area. Almost exactly one year earlier, renowned diagnostician Doctor Gregory House, was found in the water just off the beach. His death was ruled accidental, although drugs and alcohol were thought to play a role._

 _Hospital administrator, Doctor Lisa Cuddy, expressed shock at the news. “Doctor Wilson was on leave at the time,” she said. “The accident had taken a toll on him, both physically and emotionally, and he needed to work through some of that.”_

 _Doctor Wilson had been involved in a single-vehicle accident near Bridgeport, Connecticut, several months prior._

 _Commenting on the accident, she said, “Physically, his recovery was nothing short of amazing, but I think he needed to re-evaluate where he wanted to be.”_  
 

~~~ END ~~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the gang at ficfinishing for the encouragement. My heartfelt gratitude to malnpudl for the amazing beta work, and questions and not being afraid to say "The thing that still confuses me is…" Apparently, some things were just a bit unclear to anyone not living inside my head. Any remaining errors are mine since I am unable to post a story without last-minute tweaking.


End file.
